Mirror in the Bathroom
by MyShame7
Summary: The door is locked, just you and me. One shot PWP with some feelz.


**_Just a quick PWP that popped in my head. Song and Lyrics by The English Beat. These two do seem to spend a lot of poignant moments in the mens room and the more I looked at the lyrics the more fitting they were._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, it's characters, etc._**

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_Mirror in the bathroom_

_please talk free_

_The door is locked, just you and me._

_Can I take you to a restaurant that's got glass tables,_

_You can watch yourself while you are eating._

_Mirror in the Bathroom_

_I just can't stop it._

_Every Saturday you see me window shopping._

_I find no interest in the racks and shelves,_

_Just a thousand reflections of my own sweet self._

_Mirror in the bathroom_

_You're my mirror in the bathroom_

…

_Mirror in the bathroom_

_Recompense_

_For all my crimes of self defense._

_Cures you whisper_

_Make no sense_

_Drift gently into mental illness._

_Mirror in the bathroom_

_Please talk free._

_The door I locked just you and me…_

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It's to the point where the slick steely sound of the bolt sliding home on the men's room door is all he needs to get him hard, to spark the needy Pavlovian response that has him going even before her tongue invades his mouth and her hand slips greedily into his waistband without even taking the time to undo his belt.

One day he's going to regret picking this place as their go-to spot but right now, in a building where the number of places _not_ monitored by video cameras borders on nonexistant, the bright yellow "Closed for cleaning" sign outside and the click of that lock are their lifeline.

He hates that he needs this, hates that he can't make it through the day anymore without touching every inch of her soft skin and memorizing the taste of her rasping tongue. But they have work to do, serious work, dangerous work, and fuck he can't concentrate when she stands so close to him during a run down that her heat and scent besiege him in the tight corner of his desk cubicle, make him saunter right of to the edge of not giving a damn that Gibbs, or McGee, or the D_irector_ are standing there because he just _has _to touch her. Right. That. Second.

They've done it everywhere that's sanitary in this room and a few places that aren't but she likes the countertop the best, likes it bent over the sink so she can watch both their faces in the mirror while they fuck, be a voyeur when they come.

And so she's pressed forward to the glass, the heat of her hands leaving vaporous outlines that he'll have to remember to wipe off when they clean up in minute, because today, a minute is all they have. Case after case and day after day and this is their time, the thing that keeps them sane. Pants around their ankles, buttons undone and a world that only truly exists when her warm sweet flesh closes in a tight fist around him.

He's learned how to be quick, mastered the angles and the rhythm that will have them back upstairs before anyone even misses them, before even the trained investigators that surround them every day could begin to fit together the tattered edges of the miniscule but inevitable clues they leave with their near daily absences.

She's watching intently from blackened eyes as his hand snakes over the hip that's angled up sharply to where her knee rests on the cold countertop, knows he's waiting for her reaction when his hand slips between her parted thighs and caresses the spot just above where his body joins hers. When the heel of his hand grinds up into her and he V's his fingers around his own plunging cock, he can feel the change that signals she's right there, can see her hands turn to rigid claws against the glass.

And she's right, the mirror is amazing because he's watching her and she's watching him but they're also watching themselves and they look really good doing this, amazingly good, _porn star_ good. Better in fact, with her bronze skin and his Hollywood looks, his toned arms and her firm natural breasts, and _fuck_, he _never_ gets tired of watching.

He manages to slip his hand over her mouth just at the last moment because she's never been able to keep quiet no matter how many times she _promises_ she will, and as her teeth sink mercilessly into the tender flesh of his palm he empties into her in a violent and inelegant torrent of swallowed groans and choked sighs.

And while he's coming down he can't help but smile because through all of it, she's watching him like always. But the thing that does it for him isn't _that _she's looking at him but rather _how_ she's looking at him because there's more than fleeting animal lust in those dark half-lidded eyes and parted swollen lips, _so_ much more.

Sometime soon he'll admit to her that those other things are the real reason he can't concentrate lately and that it's really got him spooked, but somehow, with her, spooked is _good, _because with her, for reasons he can't wrap his head around yet, spooked doesn't mean _running_.

As they embrace tenderly, dress hurriedly, kiss fleetingly, he knows he's got at least a brief respite coming before the cycle of need begins again, a few days at the most before even Gibbs has pushed himself to the limit and they get to take a break and maybe, just maybe, figure out what the hell this is.

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**Thanks for reading, if you have ****a second, let** **me know what you thought!**


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